Bitterroot Valley tragische

her disapproving voice halted him in his tracks; mahler's wide muzzle swung toward her and he showered the woman with a sullen and cold expression. "i am valking avay," he rejoined crisply. what did it appear he was doing? and why did she care? his charcoal hackles flared, and he lifted his head slowly.
"vhat is it you are doink yourself?" he muttered in his thick accent. she was comely, a dollop of honey in the center of an otherwise bitter flower, but it was her attitude that held his focus, not her pleasing features.